Christmas Complications

We live in a group of houses that has a stream running behind it and a hard surface area in front.  It is like the letter E with an absent middle bar.

We live at number 6 and for the past 12 years, at Christmas, Caroline has, with the permission of the other owners, hung a string of soft, warm, white lights around the bottom of the roofs of the four houses that makes up our block, facing the courtyard area.  45 metres of Christmas delight.

In her opinion, and grudgingly, mine too, they look quite nice.

Last week, when Caroline retrieved the lights from their storage cupboard, she found a fault.  The socket at the end of the chain of lights that enters the transformer that goes into the three-point plug, was cracked and falling off.  

A message on the box was very clear, stating that if such a thing were to happen, no attempt should be made to repair them and they must be thrown away.

Caroline, confident that her grade A in Advanced Level Physics was enough to protect her from harm, decided to ignore that instruction,.

“I’ll fix them,” she said.

“Are you sure you should try,” I asked.  "It states very clearly that you shouldn’t.”

Caroline scoffed.  

“They tell you to throw them away because they want you to buy another set,” she assured me.  

“It’s a sales issue, and nothing to do with safety.  You wouldn’t know where to start.  For me it will be easy,” 

She was becoming more determined by the minute.  

“Just a simple matter of reversing the polarity of the terminal condenser.”

Ten minutes later, she called me back into the kitchen to witness the big test SWITCH ON.

“Ready?” she asked.  

From my crouching position behind the washing machine, I nodded.  She pressed the switch and 720 tiny light bulbs glowed a very bright soft, warm, white light.

Then, a tiny fraction of a second later, they all went out - permanently.

Later that afternoon, Caroline set off to various retail outlets but was unable to find any that were soft, warm and white.  All that was left on the shelves this close to Christmas, were light strings with bulbs of red, green, blue and yellow.  

A neighbour suggested that she tried Frosts, a nearby garden centre.  They turned out to have exactly what she wanted and they were surprisingly cheap as well, at just £25.

The moment she opened the box, it was obvious that there were to be huge problems.  Neither of us could see or find either of the ends of the string.  By digging into the centre of the knotted ball of wire and bulbs, we eventually found the transformer that was at the plug end and that, at least, was a start.

We wanted to transfer the chain of lights from the box on to a revolving reel that our neighbour, Patrick, had made for us a couple of years ago but with less than a metre of untangled lights discernible, it was impossible to even make a start.   An hour later, we had put possibly three metres of the total length of 50 metres on to the reel.  

After four hours, with tempers that had passed the fraying point and were now laying in shattered pieces on the kitchen floor,  we gave up, took off what was on the reel, and threw the whole lot into the bin.  £25 and made in China!  What did we expect?

Caroline went online, where she found and ordered some that are reassuringly expensive at £140.

They had better arrive soon!

They did!

  

197 Another £70 please

There was a time when Caroline believed that one of her marital duties was to inform me whenever she thought that there was something about my driving that needed correction but whenever she was kind enough to bestow her opinion upon me, the atmosphere in the car would become more than a little tense.  

She always seemed surprised how ungrateful I was for her opinion or advice as I drove and I believe that now; after trying many ways to end it, I have finally got her to stop.  

These days, instead of her saying something, I am occasionally aware of a sharp intake of breath from my left, a muttered expletive, or her adoption of the brace position. 

My driving record was unblemished for 48 years. It was in 2012 when it all changed. I spent one Saturday morning driving around rural Bedfordshire where I collected six driving points in just 20 minutes for twice exceeding the 30 miles per hour speed limit by just five miles an hour in both cases. 

Five months later, I was caught marginally speeding in Milton Keynes and so after driving for more than half a million miles in half a century, I accumulated nine penalty points in 20 weeks.

At the time of writing about that, eight years ago, I was under the impression that it was almost impossible to be penalised for any driving offence in London, where I had lived for the previous 40 years, because the volume of traffic was so high that it was virtually impossible to offend without intending to do so.

Things have changed in 10 years.  How they have changed!

Caroline and I went to the theatre in London three weeks ago and what we saw was dreadful.  The cast was just one actress who was on a stage with no props other than a table that had an envelope and two glasses of water on it.  The envelope contained a script and the first time the actress saw the script was when she opened the envelope on stage.

It became obvious very quickly that the script made even less sense to her than it did to me.  Thankfully, it was all over in an hour and then we had a nice meal in a good restaurant before driving the 55 miles home.

To my horror, the ordeal had not ended.  It had just begun.  Five days later, I received a letter from the Metropolitan Police informing me that I had driven in a bus lane.  There was an accompanying photograph as proof.  I was certainly in the wrong but the fact that the bus lane was completely empty and I was only in it as I intended to turn left in 40 yards, was ignored.  I was not causing a problem, inconvenience or danger to anyone.  £60 please.

Two days after that, I had another letter from the police telling me that six minutes after encroaching on the bus lane, I had gone through a traffic light while it was amber.  Had I?  I don’t think so but how can I prove that I didn’t.  Another £70 please.

This morning, my new friends, whom I hadn’t heard from for two weeks, wrote to me again.  Somewhere on the Holloway Road, which is in a 20 mph zone, I had been detected travelling at 24 mph and consequently, they would like £100, if I would be so kind.  

I certainly was not doing 24.  As soon as I entered the 20mph zone, I set the speed limiter to 20 and so that means that either the police’s monitoring device is faulty or KIA’s limiter doesn’t work as it should.

For 40 years, from 1972 to 2012, I drove in London every day and never committed any driving offence but in 90 minutes on November 9th, 2024, I breached regulations three times at a cost of £230.

But that’s not all.  On November 21st, I went to London to visit a friend who was in a hospital I’ve never driven to before.  I am a Blue Badge holder and so I park in bays for disabled drivers where there is no charge.  There seemed to be 30 or more such bays but they were all occupied.  I parked in a standard bay and displayed my badge.

Guess what?  Yes, you’re right.  I have been fined £70 for not paying the parking fee.

I’m not sure that I believe her but after the speeding letter arrived, Caroline claimed that she knew every time I was at fault when I drove back from the theatre. She also declared that there were two other times I was in the wrong on that journey but as requested, she had kept silent.

You may think that I don’t deserve any sympathy for the fines and got what I deserved.  That’s fair enough but my point is not that I have been hard done by but that London never used to be like this.  

So, there are now two reasons why I’d never move back to live in London. The cost of housing and the costs of safe driving.

196 A Pinch and a Punch

The last posting, about a childhood friend of mine being slapped, has brought a strong reaction from some people about the physical punishment of children and of corporal punishment in schools which was not prohibited by law in England until 1986.  Surprisingly, it was allowed in Welsh schools until as recently as 2022. 

Of course, slapping or physically punishing a child in any way, is and was, an awful thing to do but it was a common punishment while I was at school and when I began teaching. 

While at school, I was slapped once by a teacher and during my 37-year teaching career, once and only once, did I make physical contact with a pupil.

In my first year as a pupil at Lowestoft Grammar School, I was taught English by the Head of Department, Mr Baker.  I was 11 years old when, during a lesson, a girl handed me a piece of paper with the word MENSTRUATION  written on it in bold, red capital letters.

“What does that mean?” she asked.  I had no idea.

“Ask Mr Baker,” she suggested and thinking nothing of it, I went over to Mr Baker and handed him the paper.

“What does this word mean, sir?” I asked him.

SLAP!

The girl and her friend were sniggering.  I still remember the girl’s name and I have a rough idea of where she lives.  If revenge is a dish best served cold, 66 years should be long enough.

I have a friend who told me that in the 1960s, when he was at a grammar school in southwest Wales, he was caned.  Someone reported to the Headmaster of his school that when he and his girlfriend were on their way home from school, they were “snogging at a bus stop”.  

Their crime?  They were both in school uniform.  How times have changed.

My very first teaching job was at a boys’ secondary modern school.  As  I wrote in an earlier post, I had never intended to be a teacher and I only went into teaching because the 1969 strawberry crop failed and I was laid off two months earlier than I expected by the Birds Eye Frozen Foods factory in Lowestoft. (CLICK TO SEE)

I knew it was going to be a tough place to teach because I had been playing cricket for two seasons with a teacher at that school and he had told me many stories about assaults on pupils by staff and vice versa.

So, it was with some trepidation that I started there on September 9th,1969.

At 8.15, I went to the Headmaster’s office and met my Head of Department and Mr McNab, the Headmaster.  

“Assert yourself right from the start,” I was told.  “The first chance or reason you have, thump one of them good and hard.  Show them you’re not someone to be messed with.”  

I went to my first class.  35 boys about 14 years old, were in a noisy throng outside the locked classroom.  As I tried to unlock the door, I was impeded and jostled by a large, thuggy looking boy who then made derogatory comments about my jacket.

As I bent over to unlock the door, he pushed my arm so that the key missed the keyhole.  Boys laughed and jeered.  I turned to face the boy and pushed him away as hard as I could, making contact on his upper arm.

“I’m going to tell Mr McNab what you did,” he yelled at me and stormed off.   I thought that I’d better go and put my side of things and so I followed him.  

I was behind the boy in a corridor towards the Head’s office, thinking that this was probably not the ideal way to begin a teaching career, especially as I hadn’t even set foot in a classroom yet, when we saw Mr McNab walking towards us.

McNab was a Glaswegian with an accent so rough that knives could be sharpened on it and 20 years earlier, he had boxed for the army in the Combined Services Championship.

“This teacher just punched me,” the boy wailed.

“Was it a punch or a push?” asked Mr McNab.

“A punch,” said the boy.

Then, McNab punched him in the chest so hard that he sent him flying, knocking him to the ground.  He ended up sitting on the corridor floor, looking up at the Head with a look of shocked surprise and some apprehension.

“Was it like that?” asked Mr McNab.

“Yes,” mumbled the boy.

“Well, that was a push.”

195 What's in a Name?

I am a member of a Facebook group called “Lowestoft Football Teams and Memories”.  From the age of about 15 until I left Lowestoft to go to Durham University, I played for a team called Lowestoft Corinthians in the Lowestoft and District League and now, 60 years on, I occasionally see a reference to people whom I played with or against.  

Yesterday, a photo was posted of the 1969 Oulton Broad side that played in the final of the Suffolk Senior Cup and in it are four people I knew very well.

On the left of the front row is “W Churchill” and he was in my year at school.  If asked to guess what the “W” initial stands for, you might suggest William or perhaps Walter.

Of course, you would be wrong.  His name was Winston.  He was born just over a year after the end of the second world war and his parents were either incredibly patriotic or astoundingly unimaginative, naming him after our wartime leader.

I have one undying memory of W Churchill.  One day, when we were 11, Winnie, Roger Hill and I spent an afternoon in Oulton Broad swimming pool, where my friends were almost every day during the school summer holiday.  

The pool was adjacent to Everitt Park and to get from the pool to the park either involved a fairly long circuitous walk, or a strictly forbidden,10 second climb over a high wall.  If you were caught climbing over the wall, you could expect an aggressive interrogation and lecture from the tough and very belligerent Park Keeper.  That afternoon, the three of us climbed over the wall.

As soon as we landed, we were confronted by the Park Keeper and his equally unpleasant assistant.  We three small boys were herded into a corner formed by the pool wall and a shed.  The grilling began.  He started with me.

“What’s your name?”

“Terry Wilton”

“Yours?”

“Roger Hill”

“And what’s your name?”

“Winston Churchill.”

SLAP!

“Don’t take the piss out of me, son.”

The sound of Winnie’s face being slapped was echoing all around the park.

His parents had a lot to answer for.                        

194 Brevity is the Charm of Eloquence

In my last posting, I wrote about what I think a poem is and how it may be differentiated from prose.  

I mentioned that in two years, there has never been a winning entry to the Queen’s English Society* poetry competition that has rhyme and that, in my opinion, most entries are at best, pretentious prose.  

I also wrote that I have never been tempted to write a poem on the QES competition’s set theme as I don’t agree with set themes for poetry.  

It seems that now the competition organiser agrees and for the next competition, there will be no theme.

There is a competition rule that, for some reason, poems must not exceed 20 lines in length.

Some years ago, after spending a week with my daughter’s family, I was moved to write a few light-hearted poems based on the antics and behaviour of my grandchildren who were aged 5 and 3 at the time.  Of course, because they were aimed at children and because I am old, very old fashioned and set in my ways, they contained rhyme.

I looked through those poems recently and wondered how they might fare in the QES poetry competition.  I selected one that I thought was quite good and was about to send it in when I realised that with 32 lines, it goes beyond the 20-line boundary.

I emailed the judge and explained that as my poem built slowly and gradually to a dull anticlimax, shortening it would spoil it.  Could I send it in, nonetheless?

Three days later, she replied:

No, there is no point in sending your 32-line poem in for this competition because it exceeds the 20-line rule.  There are other competitions you can enter it into.  

This is the poem I might have entered:

Hurry up William

Hurry up William, we’re off to the shops.

We’re late and so please get a move on.

Leave all of your toys just wherever they are

And then put your shoes and your coat on.

Hurry up William, we’ve got to go now.

Stop playing around.  I’m not joking.

Look at those clouds, it’s so gloomy and grey.

The last thing I want is a soaking.

Hurry up William, the shops will be packed

And with long, twisting queues at each till.

Come over here, let me do up your coat

And for goodness’ sake, try and stand still.

Hurry up William, yes, Bear can come too

But please make sure that he doesn’t stray.

Last time he somehow went off on his own

And was found in the fresh fruit display.

Hurry up William, just look at your hands.

They’re both filthy and covered in grime.

You haven’t been out, so how can it be

That you’re so dirty all of the time?

Hurry up William, aren’t you ready yet?

What on earth have you done with your hair?

It was so tidy just now when I looked.

What has happened?  And no, don’t blame Bear.

Hurry up William.  Oh no!  Look outside.

It’s just pouring. There’s sleet and there’s hail.

You hear that? That’s thunder. Whatever next?

And now listen, it’s blowing a gale!

You’re ready at last.  Is that what you said?

No, you’re not cos you’ve not got your hat.

It’s raining so hard that we’ll stay at home.

We are not going out in all that.

I wonder why the 20-line rule is necessary.  I spent time on Google trying to discover if there is a name for a poem of 20 lines.  It seems that there is no standard form of that length and therefore, no name for such a poem. 

What I did discover - and this is rather exciting - is the draft of a play by George Bernard Shaw that was never published.  It is about the length of a poem and how it affected Shaw’s contemporary, Rudyard Kipling.

 

So Long, Mister Kipling

It is the morning of February 8th, 1910, at Quayle and Morris’s offices in Old Quebec Street, London.  A meeting has been arranged between Mr Simon Quayle, of Q & M, Publisher, and Mr Rudyard Kipling.

An office, sparsely furnished with a desk, two cabinets and three chairs. There is a large bookcase against the wall opposite Mr Quayle who is seated at the desk.  

There is a knock on the door. Quayle puts down his pen and looks up.

Quayle

Come in.

The door opens and a gentleman enters.  He nods towards Quayle, takes off his overcoat and hangs it on a hook.

Quayle

Good morning, Mister Kipling.  Please sit down.  It’s very good of you to come here and discuss things with us. 

Kipling (seated opposite Quayle on the other side of the desk)

Not at all.  I hope very much that we may come to some form of agreement.

Quayle

I am sure we will.  First of all, thank you very much for considering us as your publisher.  I am sure that whatever the problems you are having with Doubleday and Page, you won’t have here with us.

Kipling

I very much hope you are right. It’s been a difficult time.

Quayle

Well, a new start is clearly what you need. Thank you very much for sending us this poem.  We all really like it.

Kipling

Thank you.  I’m so glad you like it because I think it’s one of my best.  I am really quite proud of it.

Quayle

Yes Kippers, we like it very much indeed but there is at least one shortcoming as we see it.  

Kipling  (surprised)

Really?

Quayle

Yes.  We are of the opinion that it’s a bit too long.

Kipling  (surprised and bewildered)

What do you mean, it’s a bit too long?  

Quayle 

Well, four verses at eight lines a verse is far too long for readers to concentrate.  How about cutting it from thirty-two lines to, er, shall we say no more than twenty?

Kipling (bemused)

Why twenty?  That’s an arbitrary number.  No, I think that shortening it would ruin the tone and mood of the piece. I’d rather not.  No, that’s completely out of the question.

Quayle 

Whoa, Kippers, hear me out, old boy, hear me out.  

We think you should cut out verses two and three altogether.  Just remove them.  They don’t add much to the “tone and mood” as you put it, and some of those lines are, and I’m sorry to have to say this, complete nonsense anyway.

Kipling (indignantly)

What on earth do you mean, nonsense?

Quayle (patiently)

Well, for a start, in verse two, how can dreams ever be your master?  And surely, you only used master to rhyme with disaster a couple of lines later.  

And while we’re on the subject of disaster, how the hell can triumph and disaster be impostors?  What or who are they pretending to be?  You don’t say why they’re impostors and so, I’m sorry to say this, Kippers but it’s just nonsense.

Kipling (heatedly and incredulous)

I’ve never heard such idiocy.  Are you serious?  How can you be publishers of poems when you know and understand absolutely nothing at all about poetry?

Quayle (calmly)

I’m sorry you feel that way, Kippers but my colleagues and I agree on that.  There’s one more point.  I don’t like, “build 'em up with worn-out tools,” either.  That is just slapdash and wrong.  We expect better from our writers.  When written, it has to be, and “build them up with worn-out tools”.  How people speak if and when they recite your poem is a matter that has nothing to do with us but we can’t allow sloppy English on the printed page.

Now, if that whole verse goes, we’re well on the way down to somewhere around twenty lines.

Kipling  (angrily and aggressively)

Listen, clown!  Who the hell is Kippers?  If you are to call me anything it will be Mister Kipling.  OK?

Cutting it down to twenty lines will ruin the whole flow of the piece.  It makes it all just about meaningless.

Quayle (emphatically and belligerently)

Meaningless?  I’ll tell you what’s meaningless.  “Pitch and toss” in verse three – that’s what’s meaningless and again, Kippers - oh, sorry about that - you’ve only used that phrase to rhyme with loss at the end of another line.

Kipling (sighing with annoyance and standing up)

Pitch and Toss is a game played with pennies.  Everybody knows that, you buffoon.

Quayle

I didn’t know that and now that I do, I don’t like it.  It sounds as if it could be some kind of gambling.  We can’t have that and so it has to go.  

That means that now, with only verses one and four left, we’re where we want to be, down to sixteen lines and you’ve got the scope to add as many as four more.  That gets you to twenty if you want it a bit longer - but I really don’t see why you would.

Kipling (putting on his overcoat)

What’s this insistence on twenty lines?  It’s just a number you’ve plucked out of the air.  I’ve had enough.  I’ll be staying with Doubleday.  Goodbye.

Kipling opens the office door.

Quayle (shouting after Kipling as he leaves the room)

Another thing.  That title’s stupid too.  If what, for God’s sake?

*At the 2024 AGM, the name was changed from the Queen's to The King’s English Society

193 Is That a Poem?

In August 2020, I wrote about the Queen’s English Society (QES). Click to See  

I make occasional contributions to its quarterly magazine, Quest.  Most articles published in Quest are serious forays into aspects of the English language such as the use of punctuation or the seeming demise of the apostrophe.  

My offerings are always of a much lighter tone than the others such as how much I hate Scrabble or how I abhor the use of phrases like “twenty-four/seven” and “any time soon.”  I’ve had 22 pieces published so far and the feedback that appears after any of them shows that the Quest readers have spotted that I am not a serious, intellectual man of letters.

About two years ago, the QES introduced a quarterly poetry competition.  I have found this event to be somewhat problematic.  The first difficulty I encountered was working out, what is a poem?

I’ve always thought that a poem is a piece of writing in which the words are arranged in a way that conveys information, emotion, and above all, has rhythm or pattern.

I don’t believe that rhyme is essential in a poem although I do feel that rhyme or assonance can add to the beauty of poetry.  I very much enjoy reading “Poem in October” by Dylan Thomas and I have found that its rhythm is improved by reading it to myself in an imagined Welsh accent.

After reading the QES winning poems in the early competitions, I realised that my idea of what a poem is differs from that of the judge.

Theft  

By the time I return, he’s in love  

with someone else. They live  

in a garden with clothes lines  

flapping, the sound of children.  

He sits there, sketching,  

delicious slivers of drawing.  

She leans on her elbows,  

watching. They can’t see me.  

I creep round the edges.  

One of their children  

has lost a blue shoe, I find it  

under a rose bush, I pick it up,  

it’s mine now. Mine.  

This is a winning “poem” according to the QES judge but I find it pretentious and poorly punctuated prose with random line-length.  It is not a poem – in my opinion.

No one lives in a garden and clothes lines can’t flap. The comma after ‘flapping’ should be a full stop but then, ‘The sound of children.’ isn’t a sentence.  

Why the comma after ‘sketching’ and what on earth is ‘a sliver of drawing.’?  There should be full stops after ‘shoe’ and ‘bush’.

Why do poems with rhyme seem to be so out of fashion nowadays?  £5,000 was awarded to the winning poem in the latest Poetry Society national competition.  The whole thing is 26 lines long.  Here are the first six:

The Time I was Mugged in New York City

I told people that the travel sickness pills
made me stupid. I entered JFK with a red
suitcase and no one to greet me. A man
came up to me, dressed in black. I found
myself in a car park by an expensive van
and he was holding my luggage. Get in, he said. 

How on earth can that piece of prose be described as a poem?  It has neither rhythm nor pattern and certainly no rhyme.  Remove the random line length and it no longer even pretends to be a poem:

The Time I was mugged in New York City

I told people that the travel sickness pills made me stupid. I entered JFK with a red suitcase and no one to greet me. A man came up to me, dressed in black. I found myself in a car park by an expensive van and he was holding my luggage. Get in, he said. 

£5,000?  WTF!

I have never been tempted to write a poem on the QES competition’s set theme.  I don’t think much of set themes.  

No one ever said to Keats anything like, “John, I would really like you to write a poem about the song of the Nightingale.  Can you get something to me by end of the month please?”  

No, Keats was inspired by hearing its song while sitting in a garden in Hampstead.  I think it’s interesting that the word “Nightingale” doesn’t appear anywhere in the 80 lines of the poem.  I wonder if it would have had the lasting world-wide acclaim and admiration if Keats had titled it “Ode to a Pigeon” rather than “Ode to a Nightingale”.

During Covid, I was moved to write a poem.  It is actually a parody of “An Irish Airman Foresees His Death” by W B Yeats.

Yeats imagined the thoughts of an Irish airman who had volunteered to fight for the United Kingdom during the first world war.  

Ireland gained independence in 1921 and in 1918, when that poem was written, no Irishman would sign up to fight out of loyalty or patriotism to the UK.  The airman just wanted to fly.

This is Yeats’ first verse:

I know that I shall meet my fate 

Somewhere among the clouds above; 

Those that I fight I do not hate, 

Those that I guard I do not love; 

My version was written as a result of a trip to Tesco when I (and everyone else within 40 miles) heard that they had toilet rolls in stock.

I know that I shall meet my fate

Somewhere in Tesco’s push and shove.

Those that I barge, I do not hate

Those that I don’t, I do not love.

My shopping is just essential

And will only fill two small bags.

Their urge to buy seems exponential

Topped up with toilet rolls and fags.

No rise in price could bring them grief

Nor driving rain keep them away.

It was all done through gritted teeth 

I ventured forth that dreadful day.

I balanced all, brought all to mind.

Was it all really so worthwhile

To find the worst in humankind

By standing in a Tesco aisle?

Most songs, especially those written more than 50 years ago, are melodic poetry and many have haunting memorable tunes. 

Here are the first two verses of ‘You Belong to Me”.  It was written in 1952 and despite the final line of every verse being perhaps a little threatening, it is basic poetry.

See the pyramids along the Nile 
Watch the sun rise on a tropic isle
Just remember, darling, all the while
You belong to me.

See the marketplace in old Algiers
Send me photographs and souvenirs
Just remember when a dream appears
You belong to me.

Virtually all the lyrics of the Beatles’ songs have a fundamental poetic element to them.  This is the first verse of “I’m Happy Just to Dance With You”, one of their earliest songs from 1964.

I don’t want to kiss or hold your hand

If it’s funny try and understand

There is really nothing else I’d rather do

‘Cos I’m happy just to dance with you.

Modern songs just aren’t the same.  Here is the opening passage of “Shape of You”, Ed Sheehan’s best-selling song, ever.  It spent 14 weeks at Number 1, and its total combined sales at the moment stand at 5.09 million:

The club isn't the best place to find a lover
So the bar is where I go
Me and my friends at the table doing shots
Drinking fast and then we talk slow
Come over and start up a conversation with just me
And trust me I'll give it a chance now
Take my hand, stop, put Van the Man on the jukebox
And then we start to dance, and now I'm singin' like

See what I mean?  

You probably can't remember the tune either.

192 A for Alpha

I was shopping at Waitrose.  I didn’t need to buy very much; just some cheese to have with bread and pickle that evening.

As I was on my way to check out, I looked into my shopping bag and thought it looked unusually light on items and so I decided to treat myself and buy a packet of my favourite biscuits.  I set off to the sweet biscuit shelves.  

I searched for a few minutes but the problem I had was that I couldn’t remember what they were called.  I knew they were a plain biscuit and in wrapping that was predominantly red and white but I just couldn’t remember their name.

One end of the biscuit shelves was exclusively chocolate coated biscuits and so I started a thorough search from where they stopped, knowing that I’d recognise them when I saw them but I still couldn’t see them anywhere.  

“Oh no,” I thought to myself.  “They’ve done it again.  Just when I decide that there’s a product I really like, they stop selling it.”

I assumed that those biscuits had gone the way of Douwe Egberts Cafetiere Coffee, Robertson’s marmalade and Waitrose Essential chocolate spread.  Waitrose must analyse my buying habits and then, for reasons known only to them, punish me by discontinuing them.

Then I had an idea: “Caroline will know what they are called.”   

Another issue I have with our local Waitrose is that it’s impossible to get a phone signal inside the store.  To phone Caroline, I had to leave the store and stand in the carpark.  So, pushing my trolley ahead of me, that is what I did.

“Have you forgotten to pay, sir?”  A young woman in Waitrose garb had followed me out.

“Oh no.  I’m going back in but I have to make a phone call about something I want to buy.”  

I explained the problem I was having.  I don’t know if she believed me or not but she stayed close, standing next to me.

I phoned Caroline on her work number even though she was working from home.

The carpark was noisy and so I put her on speakerphone.  “Make it quick.  I’m in a Teams meeting,” was her greeting.

“Those plain, brown biscuits we both like.  What are they called?”

She said something but I didn’t catch it.  I looked enquiringly at the Waitrose woman and she shook her head.

“Sorry.  Can you say it again?  I didn’t hear you.”

Caroline was getting tetchy.  “I’m in a meeting,” she repeated and bellowed the same incoherent sound as before.

“Will you spell it letter by letter please?” I asked, calmly.

“B for BOLLOCKS! I for IDIOT! S for SHIT! C for CUNT! O for ORGASM! F for FUCK and another F for FUCK OFF!”

“Ah, Biscoff.” said the young lady from Waitrose.  “I know exactly where they are.  

Follow me.”